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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100063">Sliced Bread</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin'>chewsdaychillin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(but theyre nice to each other), (not dysphoria he's just chubby), Dancing, Insecurity, Kissing, London Underground, M/M, Making Out, Pole Dancing, Praise Kink, body issues, but its the pole on the tube, elaborate dirty talk, foreplay really bfuewibfi, slag behaviour on the hammersmith and city line, tim's huge, trans martin (implied because tim gets pegged), weird compliments</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:20:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,475</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100063</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'I think you're the sexiest thing since sliced bread.'</p><p>'Go on then, what's so sexy about sliced bread?'</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>198</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sliced Bread</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this might be nonsense but it has been nagging at my brain for a while so heres martim being inappropriate on the tube.... </p><p>a note: i haven't tagged trans martin bc it's not explicit in this, it's jus the hc i like and that i will be posting more of in future! there's no mention of it other than implied pegging befuewbfwi. martin worries he's out of tim's league and there's discussion of body related insecurities within his pov narration that are to do largely with weight. mum said its my turn to project on chubby martin who hates running. (it's okay tim thinks he's hot af and he's right!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Martin had never really seen the appeal of dancing. He can dance, obviously, or at least he can count and move at the same time. He’s been known to enjoy the occasional party. Not generally clubs, though. And never in a sexy way. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not that it’s ever been a turn <em>off</em> exactly, but, well. He’d never have the nerve to do it himself. Embarrassing himself isn’t exactly his idea of a good time in the bedroom. And he’s never been in a situation where a partner wanted, or needed, to impress him. He tends to play safely within his own league with people who know that very well. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But things are a bit different now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now, on an underground carriage that’s just miraculously become empty apart from them as the last third wheel gets off, Tim is swinging around the pole with a charmingly ironic, but perfectly on-beat wine-tipsy sensuality. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Martin watches him with his half-laughing mouth more than half hanging open. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Only a moment ago they’d been sat without a buffer seat, thighs plastered together down the outside seams, sharing an ear bud each. It’s Tim’s night out, so he’s DJ’ing, and something bass-y and slow had been jumping through the tinny speaker into Martin’s chest. Tim had been tapping innocently on his knee. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then the announcer had said ‘This is a Hammersmith and City line train to Hammersmith. The next station will be Mile End. Doors will open on the left hand side,’ and Tim’s head had been swaying in front of him, eyes closed, hands somehow managing to make tapping fingertips erotic. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And now he’s found the pole. He looks carefree, somehow. Unstressed about the way his legs curl around it, the fact his shirt has popped another button. </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks the way he had when it started. Under blue, pink, purple lights whirling somewhere in Soho after a long, long week. His shirt had been open then too. The lights had made his hair stand out like ink and his nipples dark where they poked out from under his loose silk. He’d moved in wild slow motion, spinning through the hazy treacled air. Or at least that’s how Martin remembered watching him, over people’s shoulders, under their waving arms, from his spot on the wall. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Time went back to normal when Tim had noticed him and cocked his head <em>come here. </em>Then it had happened very quickly, as he’d watched Tim elbow his way onto a podium and throw out a wide, swinging lasso. His choke had tasted like larger and he’d coughed on it, looking back over both shoulders. There was no one behind him. Of course there wasn’t, he’d been back to the wall. But he’d looked back at Tim and been awestruck with disbelief at the happy, excited flutterings flooding his chest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’d stepped off the wall and put his glass down, not even seen the awful judging faces he’d normally expect around him as he’d let Tim pull him in. Hand over, hand over, on the invisible inseverable rope between them, until it was taught enough to force his shy feet off the sticky floor and onto the little stage Tim had claimed for them. Just them. Together above this sea of attractive, happy people. He’d felt as unworried and serene as Tim had looked then, with the music going through him and Tim’s hands snug on his hips. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yes. Dancing might have positives. It seems that now he has Tim Stoker things are going to be different. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not ‘has’, he doesn’t have Tim. They’ve been doing some very good bits for a couple of weeks but they’re not together. Not possessive. It works well. So far, anyway. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Looking at him now, silk flapping round his naval, chest flexing even as he swings easily round the carriage, relaxed, not even trying, Martin’s already waiting for the other shoe to drop. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Tim crawls back to him he feels the nag to look behind him again. But how could he look away? </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dark eyes bore into his as they come closer, smiling still, gleaming like they always are, but heavy. There’s daring in them, the playful reflection of chivalry that likes to tease before it gives. Tim’s still bobbing his head to the beat he can’t hear. His Adam’s apple slides deliciously up and down his throat as he swallows the lyrics that’re on the tip of his tongue. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His tongue... It comes out to wet his lips as he shuffles closer. He’s very good with it. Knows it too, cocky bastard, knows where the feeling goes when Martin sight of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Denim swooshes as Tim slides his knees over the lino. Bare knees, Martin notices, in his far too ripped jeans. They’ll be red from kneeling there. The thought makes him tut with concern - that’s what he should do. But he’s picturing how pretty the pink will be, with lines of white indented in them from the fraying threads. The image makes his mouth dry. Dryer still when Tim’s knees slot in between his feet and knock them further apart. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Hi again,’ Tim hums through a rough imitation of the tune that’s still circling in Martin’s ear. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He picks up the loose earbud as his hips rock side to side, slots it in. His tongue-wet mouth pulls into a smug grin as he realises he hasn’t missed a beat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Hi,’ Martin replies, impressed and quiet. He pets timidly at Tim’s hair, not wanting to disturb the fragile wire of his headphone, but itching to curl his fingers into it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The compliments stirring somewhere in his chest threaten to poke out as Tim hums contentedly along with the low bass, chest rolling as he dances. Martin knows he likes hearing them. That had taken a few good sessions to discover, since Tim is usually preoccupied with giving them out. But Martin notices things like that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He likes the affect they have - they way Tim chuckles over a genuine flush. It’s hot, yeah, seeing him like that when he’s usually so controlled, so dedicated and determined. But it’s hot as well being the one to say it, to cause it. It tickles something in him. In his pants, yeah, but in his chest too. But he hasn’t fully explored the possibilities the praise might lead to. Tim hasn’t asked him too, and the power it might afford him isn’t something he can just grab at. He wants to do it properly, wants to -</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s distracted when Tim’s hands slide, fingers splayed, up over his knees and aching slowly down his thighs. Down for four, back up slowly on the next bar. Then again, and Tim puts some weight into his palms as he pushes forward, so that the softness in Martin’s thighs squishes under his hands and fans out from his fingers. Bloody hell, he shouldn’t be so good at this... </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Martin’s promise to himself not to carried away with compliments is cracking in his mouth even as he holds them back, groaning softly with the effort. Then Tim half stands, lifting himself up on his hands that are sliding firmly back for four, up for four, crowding Martin back into the seat. He’s still swaying - his open shirt falling like curtains and his chest rolling. His hips are dipping down on the beat and brushing the edge of the seat between Martin’s legs. All without even working up a sweat. Then it’s all too easy for the venerating words to fall from Martin’s slack lips. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘God you’re so hot,’ he breathes into Tim’s throat, feeling the silk-cotton of his open collar brush over his bottom lip and chin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>So Lord knows what you’re doing with me, </em>he thinks before he can stop himself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ugh. Bloody useless brain. No one needs that. No one wants him needy, least of all him. Things with Tim are good actually, going well, not just tonight. He doesn’t want to ruin it. It isn’t really fair to ask him for constant validation on top of the sex. They’re not even going out. The thought is irritating more than anything, a coarse insecurity he’s more than used to scratching at, and he swallows it down for later. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But Tim hears him, as he always does. ‘Hey,’ he tuts, pulling their earbuds out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Yeah, I know, sorry. Ignore me.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Uh uh,’ Tim shakes his head, ‘never could.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim’s kiss is firm and warm, pushing Martin’s head back against the window, where his skull rattles for a second before he pushes back, laughing. Tim takes advantage of his open mouth and licks into it with little thought for breathing. Like he’s trying to kiss away every bad thought. Martin catches his jaw, thumb on his cheekbone, and holds him close, letting Tim’s tongue curl around his gasping teeth. He'll be rid of every thought he’s ever had at this rate. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They pull into the next station and Tim begrudgingly pulls off him, swings back into the seat next to him with their thighs touching to wait. When no one gets on again and the doors close with loud rapid-fire beeping Tim shoots him a look and waggles a beckoning finger. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This time the kiss is gentle, closed mouthed, but still velvet wet from the last one. ‘You know I don’t mean to be patronising,’ Tim says, ‘I just don’t want you to feel-’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘I know,’ Martin cuts him off, rolling his eyes furiously at himself for ruining what had been a really <em>excellent</em> mood. ‘I know it sucks, and it’s boring, that’s why I didn’t say anything.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Boring?’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Must be, I mean... I know I can’t expect you to listen to my... stuff... God knows I’m bloody bored of myself.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He expects Tim to kiss him again, wants him too, really, so they can move on. He’ll feel better once they get there and he gets a couple more drinks in. Tim will dance and he’ll bob and sip until Tim takes his hand and spins under it, laughing, and the move, the wanting hand, will be enough. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But Tim doesn’t kiss him. Instead he takes Martin’s hand and squeezes it, which is somehow a lot more. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘I think,’ he says, with the lightness in his voice that he has when he’s not joking, only fondly teasing - when he means it, ‘that you’re the sexiest thing since sliced bread.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Martin pulls a face through his rising flush. ‘Sliced bread is sexy?’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Yeah,’ Tim grins, ‘don’t you think? True innovation.’  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘It’s convenient I guess,’ Martin allows, and only realises how bitter it sounded when Tim’s face crumples slightly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘None of that,’ Tim tells him firmly, kisses him firmer. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They haven’t discussed all that, really, beyond the first morning after where they both agreed on ‘casual’ with pretty minimal need to inflate it into a big deal. And it really is fine - Martin thinks casual is a great idea right now. He’s enjoying it. How could he not be? Playing so far out of his league is all kinds of things but never boring. It’s been an exciting few weeks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, it comes with its baggage, or rather he does, and it’s nice to know, even if it's mortifying to need to be told it again, that he wasn’t just <em>there</em>. It’s glowing. To think Tim could have his pick of the club and still go home with him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He slides his hand round the back of Tim’s neck, lets himself splay his fingers out into the perfectly gelled hair that’ll look better mussed up anyway. The car doors open and the cool rush of air sucked into it sends a shiver through them both. Feeling thick hair drag under his nails, feeling Tim’s groan vibrating against his lips, Martin decides none of that. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not as simple as deciding what to feel, of course, but he can at least decide what to say, what to do. What to chase to feel better. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Go on then,’ he says, pulling off the kiss with a teasing pop. ‘What’s sexy about sliced bread?’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim raises an eyebrow but he takes the bait as happily as he takes any opportunity to talk. As they speed away from the station Tim slides back off the seat into his easy squat, on his toes. His hands start on Martin’s knees but don’t stay there, wondering up and down his thighs again as Tim kisses him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Delicious,’ Tim purrs, with a long licking kiss. ‘Thick,’ (fingers wondering round Martin’s hips), ‘mouthwatering,’ (lips pressed to his throat), ‘want it morning noon and night slathered in butter.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He snorts before he even makes it to the end of the sentence and they both dissolve into giggles. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Oi,’ Tim whines through his own laughter, ‘don’t laugh, I’m trying to be sexy!’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Martin throws his head back laughing, but it turns into an outraged gasp when Tim licks a stripe up his neck, then to a scandalised, barely suppressed groan when tongue turns to teeth and hard suction. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘The next station will be Aldgate East,’ the voice announces as Tim climbs into his lap, lifts his chin up to give himself more room. Martin’s hands slide down the exposed portion of his stomach, his shifting flank, and into the back pockets of his full jeans.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The breaks squeal and an announcement is reminding them not to leave their baggage unattended and Martin nearly misses Tim huffing into his collar. ‘Filling... Want it inside me... ’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His brain short circuits for a second as. Then he remembers they’re talking about bread. And him. Somehow both. Wait -</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Are you..?’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Kind of-’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘-Asking me to..?’  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim sits back, sitting on Martin’s knees with his arms braced round his neck. ‘Do you want to?’ He asks. ‘I mean stop me if you don’t but... I’ve got all the bits at home and I, uh,’ he shrugs, relaxed as anything, ‘I think it would be fun.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Yeah. Yeah I think that... sounds good.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim grins, slides his palms up and down before settling them in Martin’s collar and seesaw tugging it playfully. ‘You could... be a bit bossy, maybe,’ his smile is entirely rakish, eyes full of flirt and promise, ‘I think it would suit you.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Yeah?’ Martin asks, disbelieving, as the doors swing open and the cool breeze hits his hot cheeks. ‘You’d like that?’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim shuffles closer again, pushing his hips forward and his arse back into Martin’s hands. ‘A lot,’ he says, with his tease gone and something lower dripping out after it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Martin pulls his head back an inch or two, fully intending to gape. But for a second he sees the wall of chivalry and daring and joking crumble. Tim’s hips are still keeping some sort of time, but the movement is weaker, not cocky. The fluorescents light up something exposed in his dark, whining pupils. For a second he is somewhere other than in complete, generous control. Somewhere other than his well-practiced, unselfish element. He looks like he <em>needs</em> something and it makes Martin’s throat constrict as he swallows. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It feels for a second like responsibility and a little bit of him panics, then feels at ease, then worries again. Tim’s never looked like this before and what if Martin lets him down? He’d want to look after him and make it good and - </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then Tim’s blinking and the look is gone and Martin instantly misses it. His body misses it. His hands hunt up and down Tim's denim and his tongue unties itself to push against his teeth. His mouth is hanging open and seeks out the second of bashfulness it might still taste on Tim’s lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It would be fun, he decides. Oh, it would be <em>so</em> fun. To see Tim somewhere other than that element for longer than the short moments he's glimpsed before. Martin could break out the compliments he’s been holding back. Finally make Tim feel good in return, tell him how good he is, how gorgeous and kind. His flush would look so pretty turned into the pillow. Pink knees up to his chest as he took it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Martin swallows again, looking up into Tim’s eyes and trying to keep his from drooping with hazy want, trying to show he's genuine. ‘That... sounds good.’</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No sooner is it half out of his mouth then someone gets on and Tim stands up quickly, grabs the handrail like a pro. He gives the game away slightly by whistling. It’s ridiculous, should be embarrassing, since they’e so obviously kiss-messy and flushed, but somehow it’s endlessly entertaining.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘I’m saying no to the butter though,’ Martin tells him, putting on a very serious voice, like he’s talking about sautéing onions. ‘Just so we’re clear.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">'Roger that,’ Tim nods, ‘no butter.’ He sways with the movement of the train, dips his head to give Martin a wink. ‘I’ll break out the olive oil.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Christ.’ Martin shakes his head, covering his almost giggles. He looks down the carriage at the their intruder, but they seem wired in, so he lowers his voice to a still incredulous hiss. ‘Did you seriously ask me to top with a <em>bread</em> <em>metaphor</em>?’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim grins with a smug upwards tilt of his chin. ‘Think I kind of did.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Well that’s a new low, even for you.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim clutches his chest with an affronted gasp. ‘New high, thank you!’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Sure.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a bit of comfortable silence before their third wheel passenger hops off at Liverpool Street, then they’re on again and kissing again as the vacuum seal of the doors zips itself shut. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Did, uh,’ Martin asks into Tim’s mouth in a breathy undertone, ‘did you mean now?’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tim clambers back into his lap and his lips quirk against the kiss. ‘You don’t wanna go out?’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘I think I’d rather stay in actually,’ Martin poses, pulling back slightly so Tim can see him smiling with his own shy flirtation, ‘if you don’t mind?’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The breathless, very pleasantly surprised look on Tim’s face is enough to make his toes curl a bit already. He’s blushing like <em>right now </em>is a compliment in itself. God, he’d look gorgeous taking a proper one. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘No,’ Tim manages slowly, ‘no, I don’t mind...’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Martin tries a very Tim Stoker smirk on for size and gives his arse a squeeze. It’s quite fun being able to shut him up, actually. He’s always so bloody sure of his way with words, and, yes, of course it’s charming, but his hoarse, mouth-parted silence is only hotter for it. It reassures Martin as much, more maybe, than the words do. This he can’t doubt - the way Tim’s eyelids hang heavy looking down at him from under his lashes, wanting him and trusting him to be in charge. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Well this certainly was a good idea. He thinks he’s really going to make the most of it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Okay,’ he says as the breaks shriek, ‘this is our stop then.’</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Right you are,’ Tim grins, and he jumps to attention before Martin’s even up, offering his hand with a sweeping bow. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They jump to the platform with little mind for the gap and run, laughing, hand in hand, round through the corridors, up the escalator, back round, down the escalator, and crash onto the Eastbound platform. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘The next train to arrive will be the Hammersmith and City line train to Barking,’ the voice says, unimpassioned, unexcited. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But Martin is smiling even through heavy breaths. He doesn’t mind that Tim’s breathing is easy while he gives Martin a few seconds to recover before kissing him thoroughly into the wall. Doesn’t mind that he’s still panting through it while his hands are pressed against the unyielding flatness of Tim’s steady stomach. His smile flutters in his chest as Tim’s arms curl between his back and the crumbling brick, squeezing tight and pulling them flush. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">‘Shouldn’t be allowed,’ Tim says, not laughing even as Martin snickers looking over his shoulder down the platform. ‘Too bloody gorgeous,’ he huffs, and Martin stares at him mouth open. ‘My gorgeous man,’ he breaths, and then neither of them are laughing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Martin kisses him with much more than just gratitude. He likes the praise in it, the understanding, the earnestness. He likes the possessive after all. He thinks he’d like to hear Tim say nothing all night but that and ‘please’. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They aren’t as lucky on the way back to Bromley - there are several other evening riders in the car who annoyingly seem headed to the end of the line. But the way Tim keeps his hand splayed on Martin’s thigh; the way he’s shifted slightly off the seat so Martin’s hand can own his back pocket; the way he leans his head on Martin’s shoulder and chats twitchy nonsense about the ads above them in between restrained, expectant kisses and checking his watch - <em>this... </em>This probably <em>is</em> the best thing since sliced bread. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>well hope u all enjoyed ! </p><p>u can find me on tumblr @ babyyodablackwood and u could.... if u so desired....... send martim hcs to my askbox uwu...... </p><p>x</p></blockquote></div></div>
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